In Dark Corners (29 page)

Weston swallowed hard, fingering the fifty dollars and Addie's Lucky Super Market shopping list in his pocket. Taking his turn, he noticed a strange stiffness in his right shoulder. That's all I need, he thought, remembering that he hadn't been shooting too hot anyhow since the layoff. And now, buck-a-point, his shooting shoulder goes out. "Hey, Murph," he shouted at the bar, "turn down the AC, will you?"

Buddha had left the cue ball lined perfectly on the wild pink. Smoothly, despite the shoulder, Weston stroked the six into the side pocket, running the cue ball over the spot. After Buddha spotted the pink, Weston shot it into the end pocket, again rolling over the spot, but losing his shape for another side shot. Instead of the pink, he shot a red and missed. He beaded twelve points…

Two close games: Buddha ahead eight dollars.

"The big dude's pretty good," someone whispered.

Another low voice: "He's got Trim against the wall."

"Uh-uh," Ed growled. "Five on Trim this game."

Buddha racked the red balls, then cleared both strings of overhead beads. Working a sugar cube into his cheek, he said: "Say, Trim, how 'bout we up the ante?"

Weston touched the forty-two dollars remaining in his pocket. He shivered. The hall hadn't warmed up; it was freezing. And his shoulder had become a painful crick. Finally, he said: "How much?"

Buddha's grin widened, his teeth sparkled. "Say, five?"

There was a nervous stir among the spectators.

Christ! Weston swore to himself. He would be playing short—gambling without the necessary backup money…but he had no choice—he was in too far. "Okay, five it is."

Weston broke and scratched, giving Buddha four points before the big man even got up from his seat.

The score remained close as the red balls disappeared from the table, the tension increasing. Buddha chattered constantly to himself, to the spectators, to Weston.

"Say, you work at the plant, Trim?"

His shot lipped the pocket, flipping to the side. "Yeah."

The big guy dropped a red, then the yellow two (Weston spotted), another red, then the black seven (spotted), leaving himself in position for a corner-side run on the pink. Corner drop (spot), side drop (spot), corner drop (spot), side…
miss
.

Weston breathed a sigh of relief, but Buddha still beaded twenty-three points, the longest run of the game, giving him a twenty-point lead.

His cue felt stickier than ever, and Weston's shoulder throbbed. Christ, it's cold in here, he thought.

"Trim?" Buddha chalked his cue, then popped another cube in his mouth. "That's a weird name."

Weston answered slowly: "I'm in inventory control, I was, you know, trim for the outside." Yeah, trim, he thought, his mind wandering from the game. It'd been mostly chrome when he'd started in the sixties. Stacks of bins—cool, shiny, solid. He frowned: now it's mostly plastic or vinyl. He let out his breath staring hatefully at the big man. Everyone competing with Datsun and Toyota, he thought. The frigging Japs.

With an effort, Weston forced his attention back to the game. Stroke, stroke,
and click
: the blue five dropped, the cue ball resting for a run on the pink. Weston blew on his cold sticky fingers, and tried to stroke away the dead feeling in his shoulder—stroke, stroke, stroke,
click
. A bad miss.

Someone groaned.

Weston slumped into a seat, watching the big man clean up, running half a dozen pinks. You Jap bastard! First the cars, now me. His chest felt tight with his hate.

He missed again.

Ed left without another word.

The whispers grew louder: "…choked!" "Blew it."

Finally it was over. Weston had lost by sixty points. Bitterly, he tossed the crumpled forty-two dollars on the table, saying: "That's all I got."

"Hey, Trim played short?" "Nah," the answer heavy with disbelief. And then: "Yeah, big shooter…
shit
."

Weston's anger drained away as he turned to the few remaining spectators. "Friday, I get my union and unemployment checks." He faced the big man.

"Okay," Buddha said, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. "But, until Friday, I keep
this
." He took Weston's cue and stuck another sugar cube in his mouth.

In Murphy's rest room, Weston splashed water on his face. His head ached, his shoulder was completely numb. He felt drained, empty inside, just a shell, useless. He'd been destroyed, everything stripped away. He didn't count. Looking into the mirror, Weston shuddered, hearing the disgusted voice again:
Yeah, big shooter…shit
.

***

Weston woke late the next morning, still depressed. He stirred a bowl of stale Wheaties and, unable to find any sugar, he drank his coffee black. Hearing P.T. practicing shots, he wandered outside to the basketball hoop over the garage. Christ, he's getting tall, Weston thought, watching his fourteen-year-old son shoot long jumpers. He hadn't noticed the boy growing up. A shot swished the net. Maybe he'll be a basketball player, Weston thought, visualizing P.T. in Warrior's gold. The image raised his spirits.

Grabbing a rebound, Weston said, "C'mon, P.T., a little game of twenty-one."

"Forget it, Pop," the boy said, shaking his head.

"Hey, boy," Weston said, "You're talking to the
gun
of the '55 champions from Fremont High."

"Oh? 1955?"

"Okay, smartass, your outs."

Weston was surprised by P.T.'s skill: the boy hit a few jumpers and one long set, but mostly he shot easy layins, able to drive around Weston with quick fakes; and he swished each of his bonus free throws. Actually, Weston was more shocked at his own ineptness—he
had
been the gunner of the Fremont High team.

The final shot arced through the air, spinning softly, rippling neatly through the net—deflating Weston's raised spirits. Twenty-one to three! P.T. had been right when he snorted at the challenge.

"Hey, Pop, again for a Coke?"

"No, I've had enough, son." Weston shook his head. He'd turned his ankle early in the game, and now it was beginning to throb. Christ, he'd better call Kaiser.

"Well, thanks for the lesson, Gun!" said P.T. over his shoulder as he trotted off.

Too tired to sit, Weston leaned against the garage door in the shade, trying to catch his breath. The ankle was going numb.

***

Later that afternoon, after a shower, Weston headed for the kitchen phone to call for an appointment at the clinic; but he stopped at the door, hearing Charlie talking on the phone. Something in her tone caused him to pause, eavesdrop. She was apparently talking to Jan, her best friend at Fremont High. She didn't sound happy.

"No, I can't go and sit with
him
through the dinner and dance."

Silence; then: "But Jan, it's not the same. I'd be so embarrassed. It's easy for you, your father doesn't always look so, so…scruffy."

Weston rubbed the stubble on his chin.

"I'm not going and that's
final
. I didn't even show him the announcement."

Weston felt weary as he shuffled across the room and flipped on the TV. He had difficulty concentrating on the game show.

"Daddy?" Charlie said, entering the living room. "Mom and I are going shopping. We need some money."

Weston stared for a moment, then nodded. "How much?"

She shrugged, flashing a fake smile—the gesture reminded him of Addie.

He pointed at the roll top desk in the corner. "Get me my checkbook."

After finding it buried under a pile of bills, Charlie handed the checkbook to Weston.

"Fill in the amount," he said hoarsely. Handing her the signed check, he noticed stiffness in his fingers.

***

That night Weston shaved before bed, even smacking a touch of English Leather on his face. The secret code, he thought wryly, waiting for Addie to come out of the shower. In twenty-two years he couldn't remember one discussion about sex; they'd always approached it obliquely, developing a nonverbal ritual—a routine. He tried to recall the last time. He wasn't sure, probably before the layoff. Too much time at Murphy's. Well, that was over.

Addie came out of the bathroom, wearing her blue silk Japanese pajamas. Weston felt a chill creep over him. She stopped at the foot of the bed and sniffed. Smiling, she walked around the foot of the bed to her small dressing table and sat down. Looking into the mirror, she dabbed patches of white cream on her face from a blue jar; then she vigorously worked the substance into her skin.

Watching her, Weston felt a sharp twinge in his groin. He clutched himself, gasping: "It's spread!" Sitting up, he stared at his crotch in disbelief. The numbness, the dead feeling had spread to his genitals. "I, I, I…." he stammered. "I have no feeling,
here
." He indicated his groin.

Addie glanced at him casually, then back to her mirror, wiping her white face with a tissue. "Oh, for godssake, Wes," she chided, "let go of yourself."

He groaned. "But…"

"
Dear
, it happens all the time." She looked at him directly with a slightly vexed expression, as if lecturing to a dull child.

He frowned his lack of understanding. "It does?"

"Certainly." She smiled tolerantly. "Jenny says it happens to Bob Marshall all the time."

"Wha—?" Weston still couldn't believe the numbness. His throat tightened, he felt nauseous.
What
was Addie saying?

She was nodding: "…middle-aged men. You're forty-four now, Wes."

A surge of anger washed away his fear. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Impotence, silly," she answered, turning back to the mirror. "Jenny says it happens to Bob every time they go to a party and he drinks. Later he's a big Romeo, but no-can-do."

He was furious with her stupid nonchalance; but, without another word, Weston got up from bed and walked out of the bedroom into the kitchen. He jerked open the refrigerator, finding only one can of Addie's Lite. Sitting down at the table, he sipped the beer, waiting for his anger to subside. She hadn't listened, he thought, not one goddamn word. And that dumbass Jenny Marshall. Christ!

Weston sat for an hour at the table, unable to turn his thoughts away from the spreading numbness. He vowed that, without fail, he'd go to Kaiser in the morning.

After he was sure Addie was asleep, he crawled back into bed. But he had trouble relaxing, his thoughts shifting from his numbness to the plant to Murphy's to the numbness to P.T. to Charlie.

That was the first night of the dream.

Weston was at the plant, in the warehouse. It was spotless, empty. Aisle after aisle of stacked bins. No chrome, no vinyl, no plastic—nothing. Walking down the last aisle, Weston saw a tiny speck of something glittering in the corner. As he watched, the speck shimmered and grew larger into a dazzling brilliance. He rubbed his eyes, blinking. The unidentified mass of light was taking shape, a figure, a man-shaped figure…a man clothed in silvery luminescence…a, a, a—

A chrome man! Weston gasped with the recognition.

The shiny figure reached behind his back and produced a pouch. From the small sack, he took a handful of dust—sparkling metallic dust. Then he danced up the aisle, scattering handfuls of dust that floated into the bins.

Weston blinked again.

He stared at the bins. The bins were suddenly full of cool, shiny, solid chrome.

Then, with no warning, the chrome man tossed dust over Weston's head.

Unable to dodge, Weston closed his eyes, and he felt the dust cascade over his body like a liquid: smooth, icy numbing.

Finally, Weston opened his eyes.

Only a dream.

***

Lying on the narrow bed in the tiny room, Weston realizes the dream doesn't explain everything. A few questions nag at the back of his mind. Why is the transition visible
only
from a peripheral glimpse? Why can't he move? The chrome man seems so flexible.

With an inward shrug, Weston forces the questions from his consciousness. He tells himself that he is in an incomplete phase of change. He smiles. Soon, very soon, he will be cool, shiny, and solid. He feels a chill of delight…. He'll show them all that
he
counts.

Knock. Knock
.

A wide, white-clad figure fills the doorway.

Buddha!

Weston shudders. No.

The big man's gold teeth sparkle in the dim light, drawing attention from his cold, snake eyes.

White-clad? A hospital uniform. Puzzled, Weston's gaze drops to the blue, plastic nametag pinned to Buddha's chest:

James Jackson, Psych Tech.

AGNEWS STATE HOSPITAL

State hospital? Weston feels a pain stab behind his eyes.

"Hey, Trim," the big man says in a low voice, "ain't this something?" He moves closer to the side of the bed, unwrapping a C and H sugar cube. Carefully, he slides the tiny square into his mouth, licking each of his fingers. Then he drops his hand to Weston's shoulder.

The pain in Weston's head throbs.

"Yeah, folder says undifferentiated schizophrenia with catatonic tendencies," Buddha says, the smile disappearing. "That means you got the doctors fooled." He shifts the cube to his cheek. "But you ain't got me fooled." He pokes a pudgy finger into Weston's bare chest, emphasizing each word. "No, sir. You're hiding out in the wrong place, my man." The smile returns. "My place."

Even though his body is numb, Weston feels the gummy hand on his shoulder and the sticky fingerprints defacing his
new
body. He's choked with an overwhelming sense of revulsion, unbearable. He feels a snapping, a bursting in his head, then rage, the red fury clouding his sight. Blinded, he silently screams:
You, you…dirty yellow Jap bastard! Ah, ah
—

Reflexively, Weston gasps a deep breath of air.